


the spines we traced with the tips of our fingers like feet on ice

by majesdane



Category: Sucker Punch (2011)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the second reality. <i>If she could just say something, she knows everything would be so much easier.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the spines we traced with the tips of our fingers like feet on ice

Blondie doesn't like new girls.

Amber is no exception to the rule; Blondie hates the way she's so timid and tearful, the way it takes her fucking _ages_ to sort out just what they're meant to do -- what their purpose here is. As if it isn't completely obvious just from setting foot inside the front door. And she's awkwardly nice, too, in the way all new girls are; Blondie thinks she too was probably awkwardly nice as well.

(At least until she wised up, that is.)

Rocket is nice to her though. Of _course_ Rocket's nice to her. Blondie can't help but roll her eyes at the way Rocket shows her around with unnerving cheerfulness, pointing out this thing and that thing, introducing her sister and Blondie to Amber. As if they're all going to be friends or something. As if the word _friends_ has any kind of real meaning in this place.

Hi, Amber says, sticks her hand out towards Blondie, who doesn't take it.

Hi, Blondie says, in a voice as patently bored as she can manage.

She's not going to feel sorry for her. She _isn't_.

  
;;

  
Rocket says, in the bathroom before dinner, washing up, You could at least feign politeness. It wouldn't kill you.

Are you sure? Blondie asks sarcastically.

  
;;

  
Two weeks later, they're in the hallway, on their knees, scrubbing floors.

This is one of the jobs Blondie hates the most. She hates the way her legs always fall asleep after ten minutes and then she has to wobble around unsteadily for a bit to get the blood circulating again. And she hates the way her wrist always starts to cramp up before she's even a third of the way done; the irony of her wrist cramping up so easily has never escaped her, and it makes her hate this job that much more.

Amber doesn't seem to mind it much though, humming along as she works, and for some reason that just annoys Blondie that much more. Can you please _stop_? she snaps, fifteen minutes after they start working, and a cold, awkward silence settles over them.

Sorry, Amber says, finally. And then, suddenly, You don't like me very much, do you?

Blondie shrugs.

Well, I don't take it personally, Amber tells her, after a moment, pausing to dunk her brush into the bucket of soapy, lukewarm water sitting between them. I mean, I'm new, and Rocket says that you don't ever like new girls. So I sort of figure once I _stop_ being new, maybe we could --

Could what? Blondie raises an eyebrow. Stares her down.

I don't know. I guess maybe then you won't hate me.

 _That_ catches Blondie off-guard. I don't _hate_ you, she says.

I suppose to you that's supposed to be comforting, Amber says.

Blondie's too stunned to respond before the bell rings that signals it's time for dance rehearsal. She watches Amber pull off her apron and walk off. It's the first time that Blondie can remember that someone's left her speechless. Usually there's always a snarky comeback just on the tip of her tongue. Usually she always knows just what to say.

Oh, she thinks, finally, getting to her feet. Oh.

  
;;

  
Well, Blondie thinks, maybe Amber isn't _all_ that bad.

  
;;

  
After a while, things change.

There comes a point where Blondie can't even remember why it was she didn't like Amber right from the beginning, wonders if there was ever a real reason at _all_ , or if she was just being sulky and stubborn about the fact that Amber was always tagging along with the three of them. And suddenly one day it feels as though Amber's always been part of the group, because well, they have fun together.

See, I knew you'd like her, Rocket tells Blondie with a knowing smile, when they're sitting together in the rehearsal room watching Madame Gorski instruct one of the dancers. Blondie just snorts and rolls her eyes, because well, she really doesn't want to give Rocket the satisfaction of being right.

(She'd never hear the end of it.)

  
;;

  
Hey, Amber says, when Blondie's sitting on the small bench in the bathroom, waiting for the shower to heat up. You're up early.

I'm always up early on Sundays, Blondie tells her. Everyone sleeps in, so I get the showers to myself. I like to let the whole bathroom just steam up, like a sauna; it's so relaxing to be able to just sit here and not have to worry about rushing or anything like that. It's the one part of the week where I feel like I can just catch my breath.

Well, do you mind sharing it?

Blondie smiles. Why not.

Amber slips down onto the bench beside her. Blondie watches her stretch and sigh, eyes fluttering closed as a smile creeps across her face. She puts her head on Blondie's shoulder, sighs again. It's nice, she says. Through the haze of the steam and sleep, she wonders how it is they so easily slipped into these roles. Two months earlier, she wouldn't have even given Amber the time of day; she tries to remember when everything changed.

They sit like that for some time, until Blondie thinks she's going to fall asleep and fall right off the bench. She untangles herself from Amber, who looks at her with heavy lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. I sort of want to wake up early every Sunday from now on, she says.

That's a bit presumptuous of you, don't you think? Blondie asks, but her grin takes all the bite from her words. Thinking that my ideal would be to share all my time with you.

Amber laughs. Who said I was going to do it for your company?

  
;;

  
So what, are you two best friends now or something? Sweet Pea asks, with just an hint of a sarcastic tone, almost two weeks later when they're in the bathroom finishing up before lights out. Sweet Pea's at the sink brushing her teeth and Blondie's watching herself in the mirror while setting her hair into curlers.

What?

You and Amber. Sweet Pea catches her eye in the mirror. You guys are almost inseparable these days.

Blondie rolls her eyes. Whatever. We're not friends. We just get along, that's all.

Sure, Sweet Pea says.

  
;;

  
(She likes Amber quite a bit, actually. Not like she'd ever admit it. Not out loud, anyway.)

  
;;

  
And then everything gets suddenly that much more complicated.

She's seen Amber dance lots of times. It isn't anything new.

Every day Blondie sits and watches Amber practice, under the critical eye of Madame Gorski, who keeps time with the sharp _rap_ of her walking stick. Every evening Blondie waits in the wings and watches and waits for Amber's dance to be over, her cue to go on stage. Every night before bed she watches Amber twist and stretch and flex, so that she won't be sore the next morning.

It's no big deal. Really, it isn't.

But then one day she notices something about Amber that she's never seen before. Like the slope of Amber's neck or the curve of her calf, pressed against her when she dances. The swing of her hip; the way the light glints off the glitter on her skin; the flush in her cheeks once the dance is over; the curve of her back, the way the lacing of her corset creeps up it.

She doesn't know why she never saw all these things before; it's as if the world has opened it up itself to her anew, because this time she's not just looking, she's _seeing_. And something twists in her stomach -- almost like an ache, but not one entirely. It's something different. Something she can't name. Something she knows but doesn't know, like the answer to a riddle perched precariously on the tip of her tongue.

If only she knew the word.

  
;;

  
It's early mornings that Blondie likes the best, when she wakes before everyone else.

Sometimes she sits and watches Amber sleep, watches the sun slip through the curtains, watches the way Amber's chest moves up and down, slow and even. She wonders what it is Amber dreams of, if she thinks of golden fields and freedom and home.

Amber makes Blondie think of herself as a young girl, running barefoot through the wet grass in spring; there's such a swelling sense of possibility, the promise of tomorrow, a desperate, quiet and unspoken sense of want. She makes Blondie think about standing on the edge of the beach, staring out towards the end of the world, beyond where the sky and sea meet, where the clouds float on top the green-gray water like lilies. In her mind, Blondie is leaning over, drinking water from a hose; it is sweet and coppery all at once. She thinks that's what Amber would taste like, if Blondie kissed her.

She pictures Amber, fresh from the shower, dark hair framing her face with loose, skin flushed ever so slightly.

Blondie wants to run her fingers through Amber's hair, still damp and tangled. She'll untangle her thoughts and her feelings and _them_ at the same time; they're bound like a string the wind caught and tangled in the branches of a tree. All mixed up and impossible to sort out. She wants to lick away the drop of water that runs down Amber's cheek like a tear, wants to kiss her neck and smell soap and the faint, still traces of perfume. Smoke and whiskey and sweat.

At the barre, stretching, while girls trickle slowly into the room from their morning chores, Sweet Pea walks up to her.

What? Blondie says, annoyed, when Sweet Pea stares at her, arms folded. Sweet Pea has a way of looking at people that always makes Blondie uncomfortable; a level, even stare that looks right past you and sees into your soul. The kind of stare that says Sweet Pea knows the things that Blondie won't ever tell her.

(Or anyone, really.)

You need to be careful, Sweet Pea says, after a long, drawn-out silence. She continues, slow and deliberate, What you're letting yourself fall into -- there's no easy out. You're going to get hurt.

Right. Well, thanks for _that_ warning --

This isn't a joke, Blondie. Sweet Pea says it in that annoying tone that means she thinks Blondie is an idiot.

Blondie rolls her eyes. Ignores her.

(Truthfully, she's dismayed at being so transparent.)

  
;;

  
She dreams of them kissing in the showers, with Blondie standing on tiptoe and Amber with her hands pressed against the flat of Blondie's back. Water falls around them, drips from Amber's nose and eyelashes and chin, runs along Amber's mouth and makes her kisses taste like rain. Blondie sighs and smiles and Amber laughs into the kiss.

She wakes with a start, gasping, the sheets twisted all around her; it feels as though they're squeezing all the air from her lungs. The ache in her stomach has spread to everywhere else: her head and heart and arms and legs and it feels like every part of her hurts. Blondie has to force herself out of bed, to stumble to the bathroom and splash cold water on her face until she feels okay again.

It's not --

(well, maybe)

\-- love.

  
;;

  
She knows she's been caught in a bad way. But she doesn't even want to try and be free.

  
;;

  
The annoying this is, Sweet Pea's right.

Well, Sweet Pea's right about a lot of things, actually (which is why it's so annoying), but the thing she's most right about is that Blondie is an idiot for letting herself fall for Amber. And the whole _fallen for Amber_ thing is bad enough on its own -- there's something so strange about feeling her heart swell in your chest, having her throat close up because of a _girl_ , of all things -- without the extra complications. Like Blue and Madame Gorski. And the club and the clients and the rest of the girls.

(And Amber, too.)

It's almost like Madame Gorski _knows_ too, which is the worst part. She starts putting Blondie and Amber together in all of their group dances, in all of their performances. It's the worst feeling in the world, being so close to Amber and knowing that all the touches, all the looks, are for show. It's all for show and nothing else; they don't mean a thing.

That was fun, Amber says, after an afternoon of practice. Her skin glistens with a light sweat under the bright stage lights, her lips a sparkling ruby red color. Her face is flushed ever so prettily and Blondie can't ever remember a time when she's wanted to kiss someone so badly.

So of _course_ it makes her sulky and mean all she can say is, Speak for yourself. You weren't the one getting bumped into all day; would it fucking kill you to actually learn the correct steps?

  
;;

  
In the dressing room, Sweet Pea grins. So, is that you trying to be charming? Because I can't see that wooing anyone anytime soon.

Blondie really wishes Sweet Pea would just shut up.

  
;;

  
If she could just say something, she knows everything would be so much easier.

The problem is, she doesn't know what to say. She's never had to tell anyone how she felt about them before -- well, not like _this_ anyway.

Here's the thing, Blondie starts. Stops. She knows three languages: she thinks, absently, that by knowing those three languages she'd be able to come up with the words to say what she feels. But all she can do is mumble a string of poorly thought-out and even less coherent sentences, and when Amber frowns at her and says _what?_ , Blondie decides maybe it would be just to just forgo words altogether. So instead, she kisses Amber.

That seems to do the trick.

(The best part is, Amber kisses her back.)


End file.
